


Prelude

by PhePhePhe



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhePhePhe/pseuds/PhePhePhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this prompt: http://imaginefrederickchilton.tumblr.com/post/83128093148/imagine-frederick-chilton-initially-thinking. </p><p>Pity is a powerful thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

From the moment his eyes dragged down your form and back up in a slow movement that he didn’t even bother to disguise, you didn’t like Dr. Frederick Chilton, administrator of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

The fact that he didn’t stand from behind his ostentatious desk, or offer his hand to shake cemented your first bad impression. You supposed that being surrounded by the inmates, delving into the depths of human misery and horror on a daily basis, had stripped him of any manners beneath the thin, unctuous layer of courtesy he presented. You didn’t particularly care either way. Your contact with him was minimal, and you made sure to keep it that way. The Ripper case would be your big break - you were sure of that - and you didn’t want anything getting in the way of your work. You had never thought as clearly when angry and the snide, clipped words you shared with the Dr. always made a fine haze of irritation slip over you.

It had been months now, and your initial impression remained, but you didn’t let it interfere with your job. You already knew that he thought you to be unprofessional, young, and naive, and you didn’t want to give him any ammunition. You weren’t interested in proving him wrong, but you didn’t want to prove his assumptions right either. You stayed cool and detached as much as was possible.

Smoothing a hand over your hair, you adjusted the FBI badge pinned prominently to your suit jacket lapel. The mirror in the entrance hall was buffed to a fine sheen - probably because Dr. Chilton liked looking at himself as much as was possible. Looking at the reflection fondly, you savoured the lack of the brazen red letters spelling trainee for several moments before the prickly being-watched feeling crawled up the back of your neck. Your eyes flickered up to meet Dr. Chilton’s bemused gaze. 

"Quite finished making yourself presentable, Agent?" He had never called you by your name. You were fairly sure he didn’t remember it. And even if he did, he seemed to prefer to emphasise your title in a dragging, amused roll.

You made a show of flicking imagined dust off of your suit. It may not have been as sharp as his tailored, designer outfits which you occasionally found yourself eyeing reluctantly, but the dark, sleek fabric looked good on you. You took a deliberately long moment to answer him - not turning round yet.

"No, Doctor Chilton," You said, using his title just as mockingly as he used yours. "Not quite yet." You knew it irritated him that there was always an edge to your words, but you never quite crossed into outright sassing him. Nothing you had said outright smacked of insubordination - there was nothing that he could call you out on. But your underlying tone was clear.

In the reflection, you saw him stumble as he tried to stride forward to engage you properly and lean heavily on an unfamiliar cane. You had heard about the incident with Dr. Gideon, of course: in gory detail, in fact. Seeing the proof of it was quite another matter. You turned around casually, deliberately keeping your eyes away from the cane even though it was a struggle. You looked at him with the same veiled, Mona Lisa smile as always - sensing that pity would likely only make him bristle. You almost resented the stab of emotion that you felt towards him, after months of apathy. 

"What do you think?" You gestured to yourself. "Acceptable?"

The tiny easing of the tightness of his mouth, the obvious relief that you hadn’t immediately asked about his cane, his limp, his injuries, only increased your pity.

"The patients aren’t particularly discerning." Frederick replied, eyes lingering at your torso, the curve of your hips, now that he had been given an excuse to do so obviously.

This didn’t repel you like it usually did. Stockholm syndrome seemed like a viable option, but you knew that you were free to leave whenever you wanted. He never seemed to seek you out actively, but also never let an opportunity pass to make jabs at you. Usually you would have left it at that. Would have given him a strained little almost smile and strode out the room without further ado. Instead you allowed yourself to actually carry on the conversation for more than the bare minimum amount of time. 

"Are you?" You asked, eyebrow raised, expression more open that it had ever been with him. "More discerning, I mean." You elaborated when Chilton didn’t immediately answer.

"I wouldn’t have this job if I wasn’t," He shot back, shoulders shifting as though he was going to draw himself up and posture like usual. Instead the movement was an aborted little stutter. It must have strained his wound, you thought, with another vicious twist of sympathy. You shouldn’t feel bad for this silly, showy man, but the feeling curled cold fingers around your innards whether you wanted it to or not.

”Of course…” You murmured, voice softening.

His expression hardened and he looked past you like you weren’t there at all. “I won’t keep you from your preening any longer.”

Your eyes tracked him until he passed through the swinging double doors and stared after him for a few moments after he disappeared out of sight. You felt the need to do… something for him. Something to help out a little. Your urge to help people had been what had gotten you on the path of law enforcement in the first place: it was ingrained almost in your very bones. Unbidden, the thought of making him dinner slipped into your mind. He had looked thinner just now - the sharp edge of cheekbones more pronounced. But the idea of turning up at Dr. Frederick Chilton’s house unannounced bearing a meal as a make-shift olive branch was the height of ridiculousness.

….Wasn’t it?


	2. Chapter 2

Inspired by this prompt

 

You don’t do anything to address the situation for a few days, but the deep rooted feelings of pity show no signs of dissipating.

Sighing, you lean back in your chair and massage your aching temples. Case files lie open and ignored in front of you - splayed haphazardly across the wood in a meaningless order. You are not getting anywhere with this when Dr. Chilton keeps popping into your mind at the most inopportune moments, and you don't tolerate distractions from your job. You are going to make him dinner, you decided, and feel better the moment you make the decision. At least this is a task you can accomplish - as opposed to the convoluted riddle of the Ripper case. 

Dr. Chilton’s home address and telephone number were given to you in case of emergencies when you were first assigned, so that would be of no trouble. You glanced at the clock and saw that it was quarter to five, on Saturday night. You didn't think that Dr. Chilton would have plans - though you could be proved wrong. If you started cooking now, then you could make it to his house at a fairly normal dinner time. A quick google search revealed that his house was a comfortable 20 minutes drive from yours. 

You have a stack of almost untouched cooking books on the bottom shelf at home. It isn’t that you don’t like to cook, or aren’t any good at it, but your job doesn’t leave much time for little more than flopping onto the couch in front of the television with a microwave meal at the end of the day. Choosing a vegan option seemed like a safe choice. God forbid you do this and he can’t eat what you bring.

Dr. Chilton might simply choose not to eat what you bring, but that scenario doesn’t worry you as much as the former. You haven’t missed how he never kicks you out of his office when you spend longer than most people would tolerate using his books and files. He never goes out of his way to chase you off. You know that he is probably lonely. You know that it is unlikely he will reject the offer of your company. He is not the only one with a psychology background, and you have been around him long enough to get a pretty good grip of his psyche.

Eventually, you chose an avocado carbonara - mostly because you already have the ingredients in the house, and it sounds like the easiest of the choices. It doesn't take long to cook the pasta - you a master at pasta, it got you through university - and the sauce is as simple as it looks. Chopping up walnuts, you sprinkle them over the top of the meal. It looked about as good as you could hope, and you chose the nice tupperware to put the final product in. You feel like Chilton will judge it more than the food itself. The small box is bright opaque plastic in your favourite colour, and you tied it neatly up in a slice of fabric with a bold, floral pattern to keep the heat in. 

Perhaps going to his house without any prior notice is a little forward, but you don’t want to do this in the institute. You don’t want this to be anything to do with work, or the environment that you do it in. Comparmentalisation is something that you admit to having a problem with, but there are far worse things you could be susceptible to. Drawing up to the curb, you pulled up the handbreak and eyed the large house with a small measure of amusement: of course he would choose something so large. Frederick’s sleek little red car is parked outside, so you know that this is the right place. You spared it an approving glance: despite his many flaws, Chilton definitely has good aesthetic taste.

You looked up at the light shining behind one of the windows: confirming your hunch that he had nothing else planned for tonight. For a moment you allowed yourself a little doubt, a little hesitance at following through, but you unclipped the seatbelt and stepped out into the cool air regardless. You hadn't gotten this far in life by not doing the things that you wanted to do. Adjusting your coat slightly, you checked your teeth in your wing mirrors before reaching into the car to pick up the boxes. Your heels clicked on the pavement and you felt a frisson of excitement and nerves as you rang the crisp sounding door-bell.

It took a long minute before you saw the shadow of a form behind the distorted glass. You wondered how often he got visitors as you saw him hesitate to answer the door immediately: probably squinting at your shape through the glass just like you were at his. You forced yourself to look more warm and welcoming. After a few tense heartbeats, the door swung back and you were treated with the unfamiliar sight of Dr. Chilton's mouth falling open momentarily in shock and confusion, before shutting in a sharp click of teeth. You saw his hand tighten around his cane until the knuckles were starkly white as he stopped himself from stumbling slightly and felt another unbidden pang of pity.

"I..." You started, cursing yourself for the hesitation and gesturing with the boxes. "I brought dinner."

"I see that." He replied, sharply, eyes flickering between the boxes and your face with a narrow expression. "Come to eat things I can no longer have in front of me, Agent?"

You knew in a heartbeat that some of the staff at his hospital had done just that on purpose.

"It's vegan," You reply, licking your lips in a flicker of pink tongue to keep all the words you want to babble inside. The suspicion on Chilton's face faltered for a moment as his eyes tracked the movement. Even in the dim light you could see how his pupils dilated, but you chose not to think about that too much.

He seemed to be thinking of something cutting to say, but instead stood to the side. "Well, in that case." Chilton gestured with his free hand to the hall, but did not move so much that you don't have to step very close to him to stand inside. You could tell that he was trying to crowd you out - to determine your reactions from up close.

"I wouldn't want to be rude by leaving you standing out in the cold." You have chided him on his manners on more than one occasion. He shut the door sharply behind you, in a way that reminded you exactly of how he slams the cell doors in the institute. You have always hated how he does that, and you know that he has noticed.

"I'm sure you are incapable of such bad manners, Doctor," You replied, with a half-smile.

This is not going as well as you hoped, but neither is it going as badly as you feared.

You pulled free the knot on the belt of your trench coat and moved to slip it off - surprised when Chilton stepped forward to take the boxes, set them on a table and help you remove the garment. His fingers barely brushed your back as he slid the fabric off of you. Silence hummed with tension between you. There are three coats already on the hooks that he hung yours beside and all of them are his - one umbrella leaned forlornly on the wall beside it.

"Chivalrous," You comment, approvingly, so that he doesn't notice the pitying glance you send at that lonely umbrella.

"On occasion," He allowed, voice still tight. "Shall we?"

Frederick gestured to a doorway with one arm. You allowed yourself an indulgent second to look at his arm - with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He was not wearing a tie, or a jacket and stood only in his socks. His hair was a more disheveled flick than you had ever seen it, and you could tell that he felt you looking at it because a hand immediately moved to smooth it down.

You thought about telling him that it looked good a little messy, but decided that invading his house was quite enough intimacy for one night.

The house was lovely: wide, high ceilings and big windows framed his huge, gleaming dining table. You wondered if he ever had anyone to eat with at it, and thought of your own little table: so small that your knees press up against whoever you eat with. You find yourself startled to realise that you wouldn't mind sitting at that table with Dr. Chilton. 

Just as you are about to consider that idea further, the click of his cane announced his return. He balanced one reheated plate of carbonara on his forearm and held one in his hand so that he could still use the cane - the thought of him working as a waitor to get himself through university amuses you. You think that he would look quite fetching with a little apron, but you decide not to tell him that.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

"I drove here,"You half-heartedly protest.

"One won't hurt." He rides over your protest like you knew he would, but it doesn't quite bother you like it usually does. "And if worst comes to worst, I may even be charitable enough to allow you to use my guest room."

You wonder how often he gets to make that offer.

"I'm sure it won't come to that," You smile, as you spread a napkin across your lap. It is a nice, heavy fabric one and your fingers linger on it as you smooth in down on your thighs. You don't miss the fact that his eyes linger on that movement, but you do pointedly ignore the little jolt of heat it gives you.

Chilton rattles off a list of wine names that you are sure are meant to impress you if you knew anything about wine other than the fact that you liked it. The sheer number of them startles you, though. He must have a cellar: as opposed to the little wine rack you yourself use.

"White, please." At his raised eyebrow, you scramble for a name of something. You aren't usually particularly fussy. "Sauvignon Blanc."

"I think Pinot Grigio would be better with pasta, don't you?" You let the condescension slide off of you if only for the fact that he looks so much calmer now that you are sitting down and have shown no signs of this being an elaborate practical joke.

"I'll defer to your judgement in this case, then."

"Only in this case?" You know it rankles him that you rarely consult his opinion on the Ripper case, despite the fact that you are based heavily in his hospital.

"I didn't come here to talk about work," You state, leaning back to meet his gaze.

There is a long moment of silence between you: a humming of calculation passing between you. You know this technique from your own investigations: leave a polite silence after an open ended statement and the majority of the time the other person would elaborate. You do not. He realises that with a snort.

"Pinot Grigio it is."

You have a very large glass when he returns despite how you protested initially: mostly because Frederick pours one for you. You make a jibe about him trying to get you drunk, and he just laughs.

You talk idly for a while about things: the weather, music, art, recent psychology papers.

"This was good." He said, as he took the last bite with more relish than you thought it deserved. Chilton cleared his throat. "Thank you."

You beamed at him in response. "It was my pleasure." And it was, really. You felt better for having done this with him: glad that a delicate acquaintance seemed to have formed between the two of you. 

"It's very rare..." Chilton started, his eyes flickered up to meet yours with a wry smirk, "that someone chooses to cook for me."

He wiped a napkin across his mouth and flicked it down onto the table, "Besides my mother, that is."

You laugh in a startled burst. "Now what would Freud have to say about you making comparisons between your mother and I?"

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." He took a large gulp of wine to hide his widening smile. "But I would have to think of you as something more than a colleague for that little jibe to be worth anything."

You glance up, startled, to see him looking at you sharply.

You bite back the harsh words you want to say simply because you do not like the scrutiny, not because you actually mean them.

"I suppose I would," You agree. Side-stepping the issue in an act of plain cowardice.

Chilton makes a non-committal noise and reaches for the wine again. You are at the state of the mildest drunkenness when everything seems sharper, brighter and warmer, and you know that it would not be wise to drink any more and you tell him so.

"Are you trying to get me to stay? You couldn't drive me either, now."

"If I was trying, Agent, then you would know. I'm just being a good host." he said, in a mockingly hurt tone.

He starts to top up your glass and you sigh deeply as you watch the pale liquid fill up - your eyes trailing up the trickle to his arm and down to his chest. You can see plainly the strong line of his neck and skin usually covered by done up buttons and feel inexplicably guilty for looking. You hesitate when he moves back from the glass, and he smiles wickedly - pushing it across the table more towards you.

"Would this count as psychic driving?" You ask, as you slide your fingers around the cool stem of the glass. "Or coercion, maybe."

"A mild suggestion. At most."

"Hmm," You reply, narrowing your eyes. But you feel emboldened and take a long sip anyway. You feel his gaze on your throat as you swallow and heat flickers in your abdomen again.

"My guest bedroom remains open." He says, spreading his hands like a King offering the greatest favour to an unworthy peasant. So smug. You hate that he no longer repels you like he used to.

"And your bedroom?" You ask, catching yourself before you can make a horrified expression at your own forwardness.

You have no idea where that came from, but now that you have said it, you can't take it back.

The predatory shift in his expression makes you not sure that you want to take it back at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // One more part to go, I think!!//


	3. Chapter 3

There was a pregnant pause as neither of you spoke.

Your hand went for the wine and you took another long drink. You couldn't believe you said that. To Dr Chilton of all people. You wondered if it would be best to beat a hasty escape and risk the drink driving, even though you knew that you wouldn't break the law like that.

"Well," He said, finally, the arch, smug amusement in his tone making you want to crawl out of your own skin,"I did say that I was being a good host."

"I think," You started, trying to handle the situation carefully after you just monumentally put your foot in it,"that is going a little above and beyond."

Chilton makes a non-committal noise, but the smug look doesn't fade. "Perhaps."

This is ridiculous. You don't even like him.

Looking at the surprisingly strong length of his forearms as he begins to pick up the plates, you concede to yourself that you don't have to like him.

You stop him with a light touch to the top of his hand, his skin is hot beneath yours. 

"This... wouldn't affect our work. Nothing would change."

"I consider my ability to keep secrets of the utmost importance," Chilton says, seriously despite the mocking edge,"Doctor-Patient confidentiality, and all that."

"I'm not your patient," You snap, irritated by the insinuation.

"You can still call me 'Doctor' though."

His smirk is so awful you just have to surge up off of your chair to kiss it off of him. You bump noses at first before he tilts his head and his hands immediately go for your waist. The plates clatter a little together where they hit the table in a start of expensive china, but nothing breaks. You scratch your nails lightly up his neck to twine in his hair and he lets out an almost-gasp against your lips.

"Doctor." You say, as you part for air. Only half mocking.

"Agent." He replies, squeezing your waist and now staring openly down the neckline of your dress, as opposed to the half-glances you had noticed earlier. Chilton dips down to suck at the skin not quite covered by the fabric, tugging at the edges to lick at the top of your breasts in a way that makes your sensitive nipples tingle from the lack of attention. You should have guessed he'd go at you like a man starved.

You wouldn't have guessed just quite how hot that would make you.

"Bed?" You ask, after parting from another, more involved kiss. "Or was your supposed hospitality just... hot air?" 

Frederick's mouth twists in the way that alerts you that he's about to say something that will irritate you. "The guest room is at your disposal."

"I was thinking more along the lines of your room."

"Were you?" Chilton says, as though this is news to him. God, you hate him. "Perhaps if you ask nicely."

At this point, arousal is over-riding your irritation. "Please, Doctor." You say simply, simpering to the point of exaggeration. The way his pupils expand to swallow the iris whole suggests that he doesn't care that your begging is feigned.

"Sir," you add, after a zing of inspiration.

That gets him moving, you note for later perusal. 

He swats your rear as you go up the stairs in a quick movement that is more sound than sting and you struggle to cover up how your back arches a little and your cheeks redden.

"Do you like that?" He sounds so delighted with the prospect that you are almost not angry. Almost.

"I'm not sure I'd like that with you." You settle on, unsure.

"We'll see." He says simply, hand twitching pointedly around the hilt of his cane. He better not be thinking what you think he is thinking. Despite the vicious twist of arousal you feel at the thought of that cane being used for something other than walking, you severely doubt you could trust him with such a liberty.

His sheets feel vastly better than yours, you noticed immediately. You can't help but slide your skin along them a little more than you would have usually - and not only for the heat of the gaze following your every move. Of course he would only buy sheets with a ridiculously high thread count. You tell him that, and he snorts.

Chilton moves to crawl over you, but you tell him no.

"Take off your shirt."

His expression falters. 

"I'd rather not." He states, mouth too tight to be neutral.

You wriggle out of your own dress in a movement you wish you could say was graceful and roll over onto your stomach. You still have on your bra, a silky half-slip you wear under the dress to stop it riding up, underwear, and lace top hold-ups cling half way up your thighs because you hate how tights always fall down.

The exit wound scar splattered across your shoulder blade is a twisted whorl that doesn't bother you that much, mostly because you can't see it. The little entry scar on your torso is just something you barely pay attention to any more.

"Scars come with our line of work, I think." You said, sounding almost bored in an attempt to keep any pity out of your voice.

You felt his breath hot on your back just before his hands cup both your shoulder blades - smoothing down to just above your rear as he sweeps your hair to the side and half-sucks, half-bites at the side of your neck. There is a slight hitch to his breath that makes you think that bending over is uncomfortable for him. Rolling over, you tried to smother a squirming laugh as he continues to nuzzle and suck at your neck. You urge him up onto the bed between your legs and immediately tilted your hips up to meet his.

"Mmm," you sighed, hooking your fingers into his belt loops and rocking against him harder. "I've shown you mine, now show me yours."

"Temptress." He sounded resentful still, but unbuttoned the shirt diligently - leaving it hanging on his shoulders like some kind of protective amulet. If you were feeling mean you would make a psychoanalytical comment about that, but you are not.

You remember how sensitive your scar tissue used to be, so slid your fingers very gently up it at first, moving to Chilton's shoulders to push the shirt off. He seemed to relax when you made no comment. Your hands drift back to rub his chest and stomach more firmly, trying to gauge his reaction. He rocked back and forth between your thighs despite his stormy expression. He obviously liked the attention too much despite how conflicted he clearly felt.

"You know," You bite your lip and lean up for another long, sucking kiss,"this is kind of like a suggestion." Your fingers press down the line of the scar.

"If you whip out any kind of medical equipment, then you're sleeping in the garden," Chilton bites out, despite the fact that his hands still go for the snap of your bra. Predictable.

"No," you slide your fingers down the scar again, but continue to cup his half-hand length in your palm. "I mean it leads the eye down, don't you think?"

His mouth is half open as he sucks in air greedily, rather than replying immediately. You squeeze gently, enjoying how his hips stutter to meet the movement as though he is trying to hide how into this he really is. It isn't working at all.

"I can't say I thought of it that way."

You reply by licking a hot trail down the line of his scar and he lets out an exclamation that you don't immediately recognise as not being English.

"Mierda." Frederick repeats, and you catch the rolling 'r' but little else.

"What was that?" You ask, tone arch, as you flick his belt buckle open.

Your smug amusement dissolves when he pinches your nipples just how you like it - cupping both your breasts immediately afterwards and kneading. You try to smother a pleased little gasp and fail. You wouldn't have expected he'd be so forward, but you like it. You suppose that you did initiate all of this, in a place that he technically holds power - where rejection was unlikely.

"Tengo mejores usos para esa boca en vez de toda esta actitud." The rolling surge of syllables is lost on you, but the tone with which Chilton says them: amused and sarcastic; makes you sure they would irritate you despite how the sound of the words themselves make you squirm.

"Saying things in a language I can't understand is cowardly, you know."

He laughs, hooking his fingers into the half-slip and your underwear and pulling them down in one move. The hold-ups clearly give him pause as he gives a groan and traces where lace gives way to the soft skin of your thighs. You move to take them off and Frederick stops you and tells you to leave them on.

"Do you like that?" You ask, mimicking him from earlier.

He slips a finger under the elastic and snaps it against you in a way that doesn't hurt, but makes you jump anyway.

"I've been wanting to shut you up since the first day we met." Chilton says, and that... That shouldn't make a spike of arousal stab low in your gut.

Really, that could be taken several ways, but you really weren't expecting him to abruptly dip down a lick a firm stripe up the length of your cunt. You're wetter than you would like to admit.

His enthusiasm is too much at first on your sensitive parts, so you dig your heels into his back and he takes the hint immediately - moving back to part your flesh with his thumb and rub gently. You wouldn't have pegged him for the type that would do this so easily, on a first night together: it doesn't really fit your image of him. You expected him to: take, take, take.

All thoughts go out of your head when he abruptly flicks his tongue against your clit and sucks, moving down to slide a finger in and curl it up back towards him.

"Faster." You gasp, arching almost off the bed.

"What do we say?" He says, licking his lips just close enough to where your skin aches to be a deliberate tease. He reminds you of a condescending history teacher you had once. You pull his hair, but he seems to like that. He slaps you between the thighs in a move that is more of a light tap than anything else, but the surge of adrenalin you feel is breath taking.

"Please." You grit out between clenched teeth.

"Please what?"

You stare at him: furious and more aroused than you would like to admit. If you had imagined this, you would have imagined him in the position you are in.

"Please, Doctor." You try, hoping that is all he wants.

Chilton goes back to sucking and licking slowly - two fingers moving languidly inside you as a blatant tease, the other hand holding down your hip so that you can't rock into the movement.

"Sir."

"Hm?"

"Please, Sir."

He speeds up so abruptly you almost can't follow it. The vigorous movement of his lips and fingers over and inside of you makes you arch, and squirm but you can't get away from the arm that holds you down - legs hooked up over his shoulders so you can't get leverage. You come so quickly it startles you. It is a shallow climax, though: one that leaves you almost more aroused the moment the hot, tingling feeling spreads through your limbs and dissipates. You forget to be gentle with him - unsure of the aftereffects of his evisceration - and surge up to push Frederick down onto his back, grinding against him in the same movement. His open-mouthed gasp makes you sure that he doesn't mind.

"Condom?"

You thought about sucking him - actually quite wanted to feel the weight of him, and taste the salt - but are not confident that he can last long. You feel too desperate for this now - you want him inside of you and don't want to take chances. You have already decided that this will not be a one-time thing if you can help it - so there will be another time for paying the sort of attention you feel the act deserves.

He mumbles something in Spanish before pushing you back and adding, "Drawer."

For her pleasure. You read, upside down on the box as he pulls one out. You are not sure why that makes you feel a surge of pity.

"How do you...?" You gesture to yourself.

"Sobre sus manos y rodillas." Frederick rumbles, looking pleased with himself. You know he has figured out that you like when he speaks Spanish (you think it is Spanish?). 

Your pulse throbs between your legs and you stare at him. He doesn't seem to want to elaborate in English. You think about pushing him down and having your way with him, but then he makes a turning gesture with his hands. You roll over onto your hands and knees - feeling obedient enough for the moment to comply; orgasms always did make you soft.

"Like this?"

Frederick's hand whacked off of your bare arse and you let out an indignant hiss - feeling heat spike from the mark. Just as you are about to complain you feel his cock push against you in one smooth, wet stroke that almost makes you forget your name. You need this. He croons in your ear in a way so exaggeratedly sweet you know that it is mocking, but you have no idea what he is saying and don't particularly care.

One hand sinks down to rub your clit in time with the movements of his hips and you can't quite bring yourself to resent him. Maybe this is why he is paying you so much attention in bed.

"Please," You sigh, sinking down onto your forearms to change the angle your ass is at. Chilton seems unable to resist the temptation of your smooth back and trailing hair and grasps it in his fist as he speeds up - hips slapping against yours. He pulls your head to the side just hard enough to tingle and bites at your neck - making you whine.

"Yes." You gasp, feeling your orgasm cresting. A proper one this time - your voice cracks as you let out a scream, mingling with Frederick's own hoarse yelling and gasping in Spanish.

Chilton collapses on top of you in a sweaty heap of limbs after a few more dragged out thrusts and you laugh a little - startled by how sated you feel. You slap his flank as he rolls off of you and he grumbles, predictably.

You don't mind if he does actually want you to sleep in guest bedroom, but you don't feel inclined to move unless he asks.

"You know... you're not actually as bad as I thought..." You say, turning to see him obviously passed out beside you - fast asleep.

Typical, you think, curling the high-thread count sheets around you and snuggling down. 

Absolutely typical, you think, with no bitterness at all and a faint, satisfied smile as you drift into sleep yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /// Please forgive my Spanish if you actually speak it! This is google translate at its finest. If someone wants to correct it, then please do so! This is the last part though: hope you enjoyed. u3u ///


End file.
